


I'll Shelter You From The Storm

by scarletmanuka



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock is scared of storms, Sibling Incest, Teenlock, for good reason, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: A thunderstorm hits while the brothers are home alone.





	I'll Shelter You From The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Blonde_Zimbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Blonde_Zimbo/gifts), [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> I've gifted this work to several people - two are friends, and one I know only via comments, but I want you all to know just how much I appreciate your constant support. It's a lovely feeling to know that I'll be guaranteed a notification of your comments and kudos, and that you genuinely enjoy the tales I tell. It's you lovely ladies that give me the motivation to keep writing when sometimes I feel like it's not worth continuing. Much love to you all xxx

The lights flickered and Sherlock looked up at them in annoyance. He had just gotten comfortable in the large armchair in the library - the one positioned perfectly in front of the roaring fireplace - and had just opened his book. He was planning on settling in for an entire decadent night of reading without Mummy or Father interrupting him every two seconds to ask inane questions about school or his exams and he would  _ not _ be pleased if the storm caused a power outage and interrupted those plans. 

Speaking of an interruption, the door swung open and Mycroft appeared. He had an armload of wood, so perhaps it wasn’t the worst way he could intrude on Sherlock’s night, but his mere presence was distracting. Mycroft was almost seven years older than Sherlock, already finished university before his baby brother had finished high school. Of course, Sherlock could have passed the final exams  _ years  _ ago but for some reason their parents refused to allow him to take them. They’d cited something as trivial as  _ social and emotional development _ , which was utterly ridiculous and should in no way impact on his intellectual pursuits. As it was he was embarrassingly still in school while Mycroft had finished all his education and had already implemented his plan to conquer the government. Mycroft had moved to London, had a flat, had already been promoted -  _ twice _ \- and with every day that passed got further and further away from his brother. 

Sherlock was torn over this. On one hand he was devastated that the brother he idolised was off in the big smoke, making his way on his own and leaving him behind. On the other hand, he was relieved that he didn't have to see Mycroft very often at all. It was always a little awkward for the young genius, considering he  _ may _ have had some very unbrotherly feelings towards the older genius. He dared anyone to  _ not _ find Mycroft irresistible. He’d changed from a slightly chubby, dorky teen into an elegant, sophisticated man with legs that went forever and milky skin that had a splattering of adorable freckles. He’d become confident and sure of himself, his intelligence shining like a beacon and had the habit of using sarcasm to highlight the shortcomings of others. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he believed himself to be above those of lesser intelligence, and he would often meet Sherlock’s gaze with an exaggerated eye roll when their company made some trifling remark that proved how inferior they were to the brothers. The fact that Mycroft spoke highly of Sherlock’s own mind, that he thought of him as his only peer, was enough to make the teen’s knees weak and only fuelled his desire to prove himself to his brother. 

Sherlock was so focussed on not doing anything to lessen himself in Mycroft’s eyes that he’d taken to avoiding him when he was home. He became tongue tied and awkward in the face of such perfection and he would rather not see Mycroft at all during his rare trips home than to make an utter fool of himself. It was easier to avoid him when Mummy and Father were home, but tonight they were out at a charity event and so the brothers were alone. He’d hoped that Mycroft would spend the night in his room, but alas, it seemed not to be. The older man dropped gracefully to his knees in front of the fire and stacked the wood in the box to the side, then brushed off his hands and got up, only to drop into the armchair opposite. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes on his book but he couldn’t help but notice how those long, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed idly at the ankles; or how his hips tilted upwards, calling attention to the rather large bulge in his trousers; or how the firelight danced over the expanse of pale skin at Mycroft’s throat as his gaze danced lazily around the room. 

There was a howl from outside as the wind whipped around the house and the lights flickered again. “It’s getting quite nasty out there,” his brother observed.

Sherlock bit back his retort about stating the obvious, not wanting to call attention to himself. Of course, that happened a moment later when the windows lit up with a flash of lightning and a few seconds later the thunder crashed loudly, making him startle. He hoped that his brother wouldn’t have noticed but of course, he wasn’t that lucky. Mycroft was on his feet in an instant and crouching in front of him. His hands rested on Sherlock’s knees and his gorgeous blue eyes were turned upwards in worry. “It’s alright, Sherlock. You’re safe in here, it’s okay.”

The young genius bit his lip, confused by the conflicting responses he felt. His whole body was tingling from the touch to his knees and he wanted desperately for more, to throw himself into his brother’s arms and seek comfort from him. But he also wanted to roll his eyes and snap that it was just a storm and of  _ course _ there was nothing to be afraid of, to demonstrate that he wasn’t a  _ child _ anymore, cowering from a little thunder and lightning. Mycroft would never believe him though because he was the only person in existence who knew of Sherlock’s very real reasons behind his fear. He  _ had _ a reason to be scared and it wasn’t an unfounded fear based on primal instincts, it was because he’d bloody well almost been killed.

It had been a night much like this, and Sherlock was six. Their parents were away in London for a conference and they had been left in the charge of the nanny. Mrs Hammersmith had a rather easy job since Mycroft took care of his younger brother for her and she was free to have a few glasses of sherry and gossip with the cook. Sherlock had wanted to study the storm as much as he could as they weren’t regular occurrences in the area and it may be a while before he had another opportunity. He didn’t have any equipment to take measurements or record data but he didn't care - he had his brain and his notebook, and Mycroft would be there and that was all he needed. So they had each donned a mackintosh and had ventured out onto the grounds, the rain stinging their faces as the wind caused it to fall almost horizontally. They headed for the rear of the property where the old groundskeeper’s cottage was, huddling under the sagging verandah. Sherlock had scribbled his observations down, keeping the notebook in a plastic bag when he wasn’t using it in a futile attempt to keep it dry. They had stayed there for an hour before Mycroft told him they had to get back, his whole body shivering and his lips turning blue from the cold.

“Just a little longer, please!” Sherlock had begged, and then he had darted out from under the verandah to get a better view of the roiling clouds overhead, lit up against the night sky by the flickering lightning. He’d ventured further and further away until he was close to the old elm tree and he tripped on a branch that had fallen from it. Sprawling in the mud, he heard Mycroft’s worried cry and knew his brother would be coming for him, to pick him up and carry him back to the house where he would clean his grazed knees and kiss them better. But then the world exploded.

It was so  _ loud _ . For weeks afterwards, Sherlock would have a constant ringing in his ears, and even a decade later he was aware he heard better from his right ear than his left. Light and energy tore the elm tree apart, showering him with debris and he covered his head with his arms, face pressed to the ground. He swore he could feel fingers of energy snaking through the earth, seeking him out and his entire body was buzzing. The hair on his arms, despite being soaked and plastered to his skin, began to prick up, There was pain but his body was numb from the cold so it didn't register right away but the shock wave from the blast had buffeted his body, prone on the ground as it had been. He had remained there, sprawled on the ground in shock until gentle but frantic hands had turned him over, touching his face, guaging if he was still alive. 

Knowing the sort of trouble they would be in if it was discovered, they never told their parents about the incident. The storm washed away the evidence of their presence and so they’d been able to act shocked and awed when they’d all toured the grounds the next day to survey the damage and came across the ruins of the elm. Sherlock was well known for his aversion to the cold so they had bundled him up from head to toe to hide the bruises and cuts from his experience. Mycroft kept a close eye on his brother for the next few weeks, but other than the ringing in his ears, he seemed fine. That was until the next time there was a thunderstorm. 

It wasn’t overly wild, just a flew flickers of lightning here and there and the very distant rumble of thunder. Sherlock had cried out as his room was lit up and had huddled under the blankets, certain he could feel the electricity coming for him. His skin started to tingle and his whole body shook, and he closed his eyes tightly. Then Mycroft was there and he held him tightly and whispered his assurances that Sherlock was safe with him, that he’d never let the lightning get him. It took a while but the boy had finally been able to relax and he fell asleep in his brother’s arms, and when he woke up, the storm had passed. 

Up until Mycroft left for university, whenever there was a storm, or even the hint of one, he would go to Sherlock and hold his brother, keeping him safe from the lightning. He never mocked or teased, and when Sherlock told him that he could  _ feel _ the energy seeking him out, hunting him down, he just held him tighter and told him that it would have to get past him first. The first time there had been a storm after his brother had left, Sherlock had worked himself into a high state of anxiety but of course he couldn’t allow Mummy or Father to see him so. He’d fled to Mycroft’s room and huddled in his bed, holding the pillow close and seeking out the faint traces of his his brother’s scent. It had calmed him enough for him to fall asleep, so much in fact that he took to sneaking in there to sleep even when there wasn’t a storm. He missed his brother immensely and wished he was there. One of his brother’s jumpers, unwashed and so still smelling strongly of his cologne, made its way into bed with him too. Sherlock would sleep with it clutched under his chin, almost able to pretend Mycroft was there with him.

It took Mycroft all of five seconds to deduce what had been happening when he first returned. Sherlock had blushed furiously, ashamed that brother knew just how much he'd been missed but Mycroft had just pulled him into a hug and had allowed his younger brother to sleep in his bed every night he was there. When he left, Sherlock snuck back into the room immediately, hiding the pillow under the bed and replacing it with another so when Mummy stripped the sheets and changed them, the case didn't get washed. That night he had his first wet dream, waking up to find the pillow was clutched to his chest and Mycroft’s face was in his mind’s eye, his pyjamas sticky and wet. 

Once the floodgates to puberty had opened, there was no stopping his growing desire. Sherlock dreamed of his brother every night, more often than not waking up to find he’d made another mess. He took longer showers than usual, leaning against the cool tiles with his eyes closed, fisting his cock and imagining it was long, slender fingers pulling him off instead. He masturbated so much in his brother’s room that he had to keep the window open the entire week before Mycroft was set to return, trying to air out the stench of sex that he knew much permeate the space. If Mycroft noticed when he came home, he didn't say anything, and he didn't act any differently, still allowing Sherlock to share his bed with him. It was much more difficult now that the young genius was aware of his own desires. Having the warm presence of his brother at his back made his wet dreams a given and he took to wearing several pairs of underwear to bed so he wouldn’t leave the evidence of his unnatural feelings smeared over the sheets. The longing he felt for his brother only grew each time he returned, and eventually Sherlock made the decision to sleep in his own bed, lest his desires overcome him and he give them away. He took to avoiding Mycroft, hiding away, but if his brother wondered at the sudden change, he never mentioned it.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s worried voice pulled him back into the here and now and he bit harder on his lip, using the pain to focus.

“I’m fine,” he assured him curtly. 

He arched a delicate brow, clearly not believing him but not wanting to call Sherlock out on his lie. “How about I make us some tea?” he asked instead.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

Mycroft stood but then there was a loud crash from outside. They both jumped, their heads whipping around to the window. “Sounds like a tree may have come down,” Mycroft mused. “Come on, let’s go and see if there’s any major damage.”

“ _ What? _ ” Sherlock gasped. “I’m not going out there, Mycroft!”

His brother looked at him with sympathy but also determination. “You don’t have to come out from the shelter of the verandah but I’m not leaving you alone in here.” It was clear he was aware just how rattled storms still made his younger brother. “Come on - I just need to see if it’s something that can be left till morning.”

Grumbling under his breath, Sherlock got up from his armchair and followed Mycroft down the hall. The wind grabbed at the door as it was opened and tore it from Mycroft’s hands, slamming it open against the wall. They stepped outside, the rain being driven right under the verandah and against the house. Sherlock blinked the rain from his eyes and followed Mycroft around to the side of the house. They could see one of the trees had fallen over, and part of the canopy was leaning up against one of the verandah poles. Mycroft made a cursory inspection of it while Sherlock huddled as close to the house as he could get. It didn't take long before the older man had determined there was no structural damage and he waved his younger brother to go back inside. 

They stood dripping in the hallway, soaked even though they’d been under cover the whole time. “Mummy is going to kill us,” Sherlock muttered. “Should we -” He was cut off, speechless as his watched Mycroft begin to casually strip off his wet clothes. “What are you doing?” he finally managed to croak.

“I’d much rather I didn't have to call off work next week because I’ve been brutally murdered by Mummy for getting the antique hall runner muddy,” his brother replied wryly, lifting his knee to pull his trousers off that leg. “If I were you, I’d do the same.”

Frozen to the spot, Sherlock could only gape as his brother bundled his wet clothes together, standing in the hallway in only his pants and his white undervest. His eyes couldn’t help but drift up the legs that went on and on and on, and he swallowed heavily as they finally ended and he caught sight of what was at the top of them. Mycroft’s pants weren’t wet but they were damp and they  _ clung _ to the ample package they were covering. Feeling his cheeks blazing, Sherlock turned his back, hoping to get his body under control before Mycroft’s attention was on him. He struggled with the buttons on his shirt, his fingers clumsy as he willed away his raging erection. The eyeful he’d just gotten was enough to provide wank fodder for the next year and his cock was begging to be taken in hand  _ right bloody now _ . 

Sherlock had never believed in a god, or any higher power, but right now he was inclined to reevaluate that thought. He’d pulled his sopping shirt off his body (unlike his brother, he didn't bother with a vest underneath) and was undoing his jeans, thinking every horrible thought he could in an attempt to get his cock to stand down, when the lights flickered and then went out. They were plunged into darkness and his sigh of relief was probably audible. 

“Dammit,” Mycroft muttered in the gloom.

“Yes, terrible timing,” Sherlock added, his voice surprising free of his sarcasm. He peeled his jeans off, shivering as the cold air assaulted his wet skin. 

“Here, give me your clothes,” Mycroft instructed, groping towards him in the dark, his fingers brushing Sherlock’s arm as he sought out the wet laundry. He took them from him and then opened the front door, throwing the bundle out onto the verandah. “I’ll let them in the morning,” he explained as he shut the door. “It’s not like they’ll get any wetter out there.”

_ Unlike me, _ Sherlock thought, the sight of Mycroft’s lithe form outlined against the flash of lightning from outside burning into his retinas. His cock had twitched in his pants and he could feel a damp patch on his underwear that had nothing to do with getting caught in the rain. 

“Come on, let’s go and find some warm clothes,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock nodded, even though it couldn't be seen and turned to make his way back along the hall. He was shocked as a hand found his in the dark but he didn't say anything, not wanting to make the situation awkward and cause his brother to let go. They shuffled up the hall, heading for the stairs in the dark, moving by memory alone. Sherlock had made the trip from his room to the bathroom a thousand times in the dark but he’d had few reasons to move around downstairs in the dead of night so it was less familiar to him. He could recall every detail of the area if required but describing an area and moving through it in the dark whilst distracted by a warm hand gripping yours were two completely different things. That was why he totally forgot about the hall table at the very bottom of the stairs, causing him to run into it and stumble. A hand reached up to steady him in the middle of his back, right above his spine and the warm hand felt almost hot against his cold skin. Once he had his footing, Mycroft removed his hand but his fingers trailed down his skin slightly as he did so. Sherlock shivered at the touch, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable, and trying to determine if it had been deliberate or not. It had been a strangely sensual touch, the pads of his brother’s fingers dragging over several of his vertebrae before ghosting away. 

They carefully felt their way over to the stairs and Mycroft headed up first. He twisted his palm as he did so, rearranging their join hands so their fingers clasped together and squeezed gently. Sherlock was sure his brother would be able to hear his heartbeat, it was thumping so loudly in his chest. There was no denying now that something had changed between them. Holding hands to navigate in the dark was one thing, but this was altogether different, much more intimate. It was how lovers held hands, not brothers and a flare of hope blossomed deep within him. Could it be that Mycroft felt the same way? Had he been able to read the feelings that Sherlock had hidden for so long and actually returned them? If he did, what would happen now? 

The reached the top of the stairs and Mycroft paused, causing Sherlock to bump against his back. “What is it?” he whispered, feeling the hair at the nape of his brother’s neck tickle his nose. He was so  _ close _ . 

“With no power there’s not much to do. It’s late anyway so I might just go to bed.” He heard his brother swallow nervously. “Do you want to stay with me tonight? Because of the storm?” 

Yes, perhaps there was a god after all. Sherlock could hear the  _ want _ in Mycroft’s voice, an echo of his own feelings. He was confident in his observations, sure of his deductions, and knew without a doubt now that Mycroft felt the same way. He felt giddy and overwhelmed, anxious and nervous, happy and terrified. He squeezed the hand that was still linked and lifted his other to rest on his brother’s hip. He let a finger dip between the space where his vest overlapped his underwear, brushing across the soft skin. “I’d love to stay with you tonight,” he murmured. “But not because of the storm.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and Mycroft’s whole body tensed. Sherlock moved his face forward an inch and pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s spine. His brother shuddered and he pulled their linked hands around to his stomach, causing Sherlock to be pulled flush against his back. They both groaned as Sherlock’s erection pressed against his arse and then Mycroft was moving, pulling him quickly down the hall to his bedroom. Once they were inside, Sherlock was let go of and he heard the door close and the lock turn. Then there were hands on him, fingers gently tracing over his face and lips. “Are you sure?” Mycroft whispered.

“God,  _ yes _ ,” the young genius said in a breathy voice, surging forwards to press their lips together. 

Mycroft’s arms closed around him and he walked them backwards towards the bed as they kissed. Their cocks pressed against each other through their pants and they slid against each other, trying to find friction. When his knees touched the mattress, Sherlock pushed his underwear down, kicking it away so he was exposed to the room. He felt Mycroft do the same, and then pull his vest over his head. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room and giving Sherlock a clear view of his naked brother. “Fuck, Mycroft,” he said, stepping forward and running a hand from his chest down to his stomach. “I’ve wanted you so long.” He was so caught up in the feel of the skin under his fingers that he didn’t even flinch as the thunder rumbled afterwards.

“I know,” his brother replied, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and pulling him close for another kiss. “Do you know how hard it was for me to wait for you to turn sixteen? Even now you’re too young but I can’t wait another two years, I can’t wait to have you.”

“You don’t care that we’re brothers?”

“It appears only as much as you do.”

They kissed again and then with gentle pressure on his shoulders, Mycroft urged Sherlock onto the bed. He scrambled backwards, positioning himself in the centre so his brother could straddle his hips. Mycroft leaned over him, aligning their cocks and then wrapped one hand around both of them. Sherlock hissed in pleasure, wondering how Mycroft’s hand could feel so different to his own. He thrust his hips upwards, feeling the drag of the silky flesh of his brother’s cock against his own, their precome mixing to lubricate the way. Mycroft ran a thumb over the tip, causing more fluid to pulse from his slit and Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp. It was swallowed down by plush lips on his and he lost himself to the overwhelming sensations he was experiencing. Lightning flashed again but the only energy he could feel was the sparks between himself and Mycroft. 

They clung to each other as the storm raged around them, lost in the feel of each other, sharing kisses and whispered endearments. Sherlock felt his pleasure build and soon he was arching his back, thrusting into Mycroft’s palm and crying out as he climaxed just as thunder rumbled through the air. He panted hotly against Mycroft’s neck, his spent cock flopping onto his stomach as his brother moved his hand rapidly over his own length, using Sherlock’s release to slick the way. He tensed and then he was coming, painting the young genius’ stomach with hot stripes of semen. 

They lay curled against each other, regaining their breaths and having the reality of the situation sink in. Sherlock knew he would have no regrets, he’d gotten what he’d always wanted, and from the tender kisses Mycroft pressed to his lips, he knew his brother would no regret their actions either. After a while they forced themselves to get up, to head to the dark bathroom and clean themselves of their mess. Afterwards, Mycroft linked their fingers together once more and led Sherlock back to bed. He pulled his brother close against him and Sherlock sighed happily and snuggled close. 

The storm was passing, the thunder chasing the lightning at a slower pace, but for the first time since he was a child, Sherlock didn’t fear the storm. He curled into the protective embrace of his brother’s arms, knowing he was safe and it wasn’t long before he’d fallen into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
